the wonder of snow

What was a white dream last night was a brown, slushy rush-hour nightmare this morning.

But that doesn't change the wonder and excitement I felt when I was walking to the park last night, my boots making a sliding crunch every time I stepped. Every single sky-facing surface was covered in a pillowy layer of white. Every detail of the tree trunks, bare branches, and few remaining leaves were outlined, every iron fence, every street sign. It was fresh snow and still falling, so the plows hadn't made their way to the side streets yet; the only thing differentiating the sidewalk from the small residential street (besides a jarring step down the hidden curb) was an occasional tire path. It was silent, the usual bustling pedestrians were at home or in taxis, many of the cars either buried under mounds of snow or slowly making their way on the main streets. The snow fell lazily, tiny white particles swirling with the wind, sparkling under the street lights, unobtrusively attaching themselves to strands of my hair, the fur on my hood, the toes of my boots. Excellently aimed snow balls hit my face, the cold prickling my skin and immediately melting down my neck, past the high collar of my jacket. The night was bright, with the yellow street lights reflecting white, the sky hazy and slightly orange.

Cities, with all their concrete, brick, and stone, can be beautiful in their own grotesque way. But the snow erased the concrete and the dirt, outlined the stone and brick, and created, for lack of a better phrase, a different world. A dream.

The snow continued through the night, stopped to let the shop owners shovel, the commuters walk and wait, the car drivers scrape, the salters salt, and the snow plows clear. By the time I got outside, there were signs warning of falling ice, the sidewalks were concrete again, the curbs black with the dirty white, the planters, trees and hidden parking lots still pristine. It's snowing again: small dusty particles mingled with the larger white, all lazily swirling with gravity and the wind. With any luck, by the time I'm finished working all will be white again and I can try my hand at a snowman or a snow angel. Or another snow-ball fight.

I figure I have this winter and maybe next to enjoy the snow before I start hating it and the hassles it causes. I only know one person who has lived here for longer than two years who still likes the snow. Maybe I will be that person in another few years. Or maybe I will retreat, sheepishly, back to California.